


I Found

by nlogax



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anxiety Disorder, Drug Addiction, M/M, Running, Ryden, Rydon, the young veins - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:02:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27652451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nlogax/pseuds/nlogax
Summary: Ryan looks across the room at his backpack, thrown down carelessly by the door, and thinks about the little orange bottle inside. The back of his neck itches when the hairs stand up. He tries to forget Spencer said anything and turns his attention to the tv, too.
Relationships: Ryan Ross/Brendon Urie
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics belong to Daughter. Title belongs to Amber Run.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love, hunt me down  
> I can't stand to be so dead behind the eyes.  
> And feed me, spark me up,  
> a creature in my bloodstream chews me up so I can feel something.

It’s just past 6am, the sun barely peeking over the trees, casting a hazy orange glow around the horizon line. It’s October, so it’s freezing out, but Ryan feels hot and alive. His heart is pounding in his chest and a thin layer of sweat shields his exposed skin from the harsh wind. His breathing is hard enough to hear over the music in his ears, but he’s almost past the threshold now. Just a few meters more and he’ll hit that sweet, sweet runner’s high. 

He rounds the corner, right past the house with the tall white fence and the little white dog that always flashes through the slats, running and yapping alongside him when he passes in the evenings. She’s not there now, it being too early and too cold for her morning exercise. He keeps running straight, headed for the edge of the neighbourhood where the winding, flat roads become hilly. He has to get to the top of the hill before sunrise if he wants to beat his personal best, which is always the goal. 

He races to the top just in time, huffing and puffing the whole way up, but once he makes the turn is when it hits—that blissful, whole-body shiver that makes him feel invincible. He smiles into the feeling, closing his eyes and pushing himself harder. His legs shake with the momentum as he makes his way back down, exercising his limitations as he carries himself back through the neighbourhood to his apartment. His strides become shorter as he slows down in front of the gate, bracing himself and clasping his hands behind his head to catch his breath. 

The sun’s almost up now, light bursting over the treetops and waking the neighbourhood from sleep. Ryan lets one earphone drop and dangle free, half-listening to the birds and half listening to Radiohead, and he almost can’t remember what it was that made him wake up, throw on his sneakers and walk out the door in the first place. 

*

He could probably do better in Chemistry, he thinks, staring unhappily the bright red D+ on the right hand corner of the page. It’s still sort of early in the semester, so he has time, but his academic advisor is always saying it’s easy to fall behind in the general science courses, also reminding Ryan he needs those to graduate, even if his degree is in Creative Writing. Ryan grimaces, stuffing the paper into his backpack to dig up and inspect more closely later (or not, more likely). He tries to pay attention for the first ten minutes of the lecture, but his mind always starts to wander. 

There’s a track meet this Thursday against Reno, their in-state rivals, and he’s got to be ready if he wants to avoid getting benched. He’ll have to squeeze in extra practice time on Wednesday, which means his availability to study chemistry is pretty much non-existent until the weekend. That’s a whole new issue, because obviously he’ll be spending that time playing video games with Spencer and trying to forget that classes even exist and midterms are creeping up on them faster than ever before. 

He uses the margins of his notebook to calculate how many times he’d have to run the block to equal the distance of the track, and how many seconds he’d be able to shave off if he didn’t wear under armour. The numbers are compelling. He almost doesn’t hear the professor dismiss class ten minutes early. He definitely doesn’t hear the student teacher recommend his review sessions every Tuesday and Thursday in the library. He picks up his bag and hurries over to the athletic building to get ready for practice. 

*

They win the meet on Thursday, Ryan having run his best time in weeks. He’s praised and prodded by his teammates and the coach gives him a pat on the back as he heads for the bleachers. Spencer’s there, reading over his Calculus notes instead of paying attention, and Ryan rolls his eyes as he plops onto the now emptying bleachers beside him. 

“Personal best?” Spencer inquires, making a couple of pencil marks on the paper that look like alien communication to Ryan’s untrained eye. 

“Yeah,” Ryan breathes, still a little winded. He’s about to say something else, suggest dinner at his favourite Thai place, when his phone starts vibrating from inside his gym bag. He reaches inside and flips his phone open to look at the caller ID, then flips it closed again and shoves it back into the bag, still ringing. 

Spencer looks up from his homework, one eyebrow raised in question, but Ryan just shrugs. “Mom,” he says, and looks away. 

Spencer keeps looking for a moment more, but doesn’t push the envelope. “I’ll just be a couple more minutes, then we can go eat,” Spencer says absently, raising his pencil again to scratch a few more characters onto the page. 

Ryan nods, popping his headphones in and playing Ben Howard. He feels a little less triumphant, but still on top of the world. He and Spencer sit in companionable silence while the latter finishes his homework, watching the sun dip below the tree line beyond the now deserted fields. Eventually, Spencer puts his books away and hoists up his bag, and Ryan follows him down and out of the complex, back towards campus for dinner. 

*

Friday night, Spencer has band practice. Ryan tries to sit down in his living room with his Chemistry book and make some real progress, but he mostly ends up reading the same four sentences over and over again until he accidentally hits the tv remote with his foot and ends up watching Gilmore Girl reruns instead. Eventually, he falls asleep, but he’s awoken sometime later to the sound of his phone ringing. 

With bleary eyes, he flips it open and sees the first three digits of his mother’s phone number. He holds the phone in his hands and watches it ring, ring, ring, ring and go to voicemail. He continues to watch the screen, waiting for the usual voicemail notification to pop up on the screen (“Hey sweetie, just checking in again. Please call me back when you get a minute to talk. I miss you. I love you. I hope you’re doing well. It’s mom.”)

He waits, and waits, but the message doesn’t pop up. He falls asleep again. 

*

Saturday morning he gets a call from a different number, this time his academic advisor, just checking in. “I’ve checked your grades, and I’m very disappointed, Mr. Ross,” he says. He sounds kind of tired and Ryan feels bad for a minute, but honestly he shouldn’t put so much of himself into his job. He’s just an academic advisor. He’s not Ryan’s therapist and Ryan’s problems are not his problems. In fact, he might be part of Ryan’s problems. “I thought we discussed the necessity of passing your general education courses.”

“We did,” Ryan says, searching for his favourite pair of running shorts in the pile of clean laundry he still hasn’t folded and put away from last week. “I’ve just been really busy with my other classes and track, you know? Priorities.” He frowns, not having found his shorts, and walks over to his closet to check there. Where could they be?

“Ryan,” Mr. Stump says, sounding parental. If Ryan wanted to hear that tone he’d probably answer the phone when—, “Ryan, if you can’t get your act together in your Chemistry course, you might not have to worry about track anymore.”

Ryan’s ears perk up at this, and he unburies himself from a stack of sweaters in his closet. “Huh?” He says into the phone, brows meeting in the middle of his forehead. “Are you threatening to get me dropped from the team?”

“Not threatening, no,” Stump says. Ryan can hear him clicking away at his computer keyboard on the other end of the line. “But your scholarship conditions require you to have at least a passing grade of C or better in your required courses. Ryan, according to procedure I will have to put your record on academic probation starting November 1. And if you can’t bring things around by semester’s end, you could risk losing the scholarship entirely.”

Ryan feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and a cold sweat begins to form in the small of his back. His throat is dry when he tries to speak. He doesn’t even know what he wants to say, really. He ends up saying nothing for what seems like a long, bristling silence before Mr. Stump continues. 

“I don’t want to see that happen to you Ryan, please. You’re a smart kid. You just need to adjust those priorities of yours,” he says. “If you need help, there are plenty of campus resources I’d be more than happy to recommend for you, jut let me—“

“Thanks for calling, Mr. Stump, but I have to go. I’ll definitely get back to you about those resources,” Ryan blurts. His hands are shaking when he trie to hit the red end call button. His thoughts start racing around his mind like runners on a track. Then there are hurdles, and some of the runners start messing up, and new obstacles keep popping up everywhere, closer and closer together and his thoughts are scrambling, now. He blinks rapidly, clearing the fog from his mind enough to remember that he’s looking for his favourite shorts. He rushes over to his dirty clothes bin, tearing out articles of smelly, slightly damp clothing and tossing them around the room, some of them mingling with the pile of clean clothes and some of them making new piles on the bed, the floor. He gets to the bottom of the basket but still can’t find the shorts. 

Ryan can hear his heartbeat in his ears now. His blood is pumping so hard it hurts his left wrist. He shakes it loose and runs from his room to the back of the apartment where the laundry closet is. He looks on both sides of the machines, but only finds an old gym sock. There’s nothing in the washer or dryer. He can’t find his fucking shorts.

Who needs them, he thinks suddenly, grabbing any other old pair and stepping out of his jeans to change. He keeps the same t-shirt on and grabs his sneakers at the door and his iPod from the couch and heads out, and he’s already running by the time he hits the gate. 

*

It’s dark out, past six in the wintertime, and the cold air is prickly against Ryan’s arms, legs, and face. His lungs are burning from the cold. His joints ache, a little from the chill but more likely because this is his third run of the day. He can feel his shins splinting. His left foot is cramping up a little, but he pushes through the pain. His hands are clenched into fists and his knuckles are working so hard he can see the white of the bone through his skin. 

He took a new route today, through the other side of the neighbourhood. Sometimes it’s nice to get a little change of scenery when his mind wants to race the way it likes too. More things to look at that are new and interesting and distracting. More things to notice and ponder. More restaurants and shops to memorise, more dogs to meet in passing. Except, it’s not really calming him down this time. The streets are mostly empty, some other students from his school in small groups as they walk to and from parties, dinners, night-time study sessions or evening classes. He avoids them when he can and brushes past them with a quick and quiet on your left! when he can’t. He makes a right turn when he feels the streets getting too crowded, and finds himself in an even darker part of the neighbourhood. Every other streetlight is burnt out for some reason. Luckily, though Ryan has many fears, the dark isn’t one of them. 

All he can hear are the soft strums of The Paper Kites in his ears, so he doesn’t hear the red Honda Civic turn into the neighbourhood and head his direction. There’s a small group of students walking toward him, so he’s gotta cross the street to avoid passing them directly. He cuts across the pavement without looking, confident in the lack of traffic, and bumbles backward when the roaring blare of a car horn startles him, right next to him. All at once he feels fear and a strange, painful impact to his left leg. His earphones fall out of his ears as he stumbles backwards, landing harshly on the pavement, bracing his fall with the palms of his hands. He feels the skin tear as he lands, feels the bruising impact but doesn’t really know what to think. Without the music in his ears, he can hear the driver shouting rudely from his passenger’s side window as he speeds away. He can also hear another voice, someone shouting “Oh shit!” And footsteps coming closer. 

“Man, are you okay? Did that car just hit you?” The voice asks, and now it’s right next to him. Ryan can’t stop staring straight ahead. His breathing is laboured and his mind is still racing from before. He tries to register what just happened, and suddenly his knee hurts really, really bad. Instead of looking at it, he looks towards the voice. 

It’s definitely a college kid, looks a little younger than Ryan himself. His cheeks are flushed like he’s been drinking, bringing out the fullness of his lips and his large, dark brown eyes. He runs his hand through his messy black hair and glances down from Ryan’s face to his leg, looking worried. “Your leg,” he says. “Do you need to go to the hospital?”

Ryan blinks, but doesn’t respond. He lets out a shaky breath, laboured, and decides to take a look for himself. It’s not broken, thank god. But his knee is bleeding and his ankle is definitely swollen. He reaches down to take of his sneaker for a closer look, but the first bend of the knee makes him shriek in pain and shy away. The guy gasps too, like it hurt just to watch. 

“What can I do? Do you need help getting home?” The guy says, trying to get Ryan to speak so he can make sure he’s okay. “I’m going to call an ambulance.”

At this, Ryan shakes his head. “No, no, I’m alright. I just—agh!” He uses his bloody, scraped hands to pull his leg up, tries to put weight on it to stand up properly but he can’t. He can feel himself start to get frustrated again. “I’m fine, it’s just scratches and bruises,” he says defiantly. He tries again to get up on his own, but the guy stops him with a heavy hand on his shoulder. 

“Let me help you,” he says. He places on hand under Ryan’s hurt thigh and the other arm around Ryan’s waist. His arms are incredibly warm. Ryan uses his good leg to help when the guy hoists him up, swinging one arm round his shoulders so that he can stand without putting weight on his other leg. Once up, he meets the guy’s eyes again. “I’m Brendon,” he says. 

“Ryan,” Ryan replies, curt. He looks away, down at his bloody knee and swollen ankle, and his throat feels tight again. 

“Let me help you home,” Brendon says, readjusting Ryan’s arm around his neck. Ryan doesn’t want anyone’s help, but at this point it probably isn’t possible to get home on his own, so he leads Brendon around with verbal directions and tries to keep his weight off of him by putting as much on his good leg as possible. 

“That guy’s a dick for driving off. He could have really hurt you,” Brendon says as they walk, trying to make conversation. 

“Not really. It was my fault. I didn’t look before I crossed,” Ryan mumbles. He’s surprised he can even speak, his throat feels so tight and raw. His lips are chapped and his cheeks burn in the wind. He winces when he tries, again, to put weight on the injured leg, and he feels tears sting behind his eyes. 

“Still,” Brendon whispers. He looks over at Ryan, probably noticing his red face and watery eyes, and maybe the blood on his shirt from where Ryan’s torn hands are gripping tightly to his shoulder. “Are you sure you’re okay? I can take you to the hospital, if you need,” Brendon says. 

“I’m fine, don’t ask again,” Ryan says with finality. Brendon doesn’t say much after that, but Ryan can feel him sneaking glances now and again. When they finally get to Ryan’s apartment, he can use the gate and railing to get himself inside. He looks down at Brendon from the porch, illuminated only by the dim, dirty porch light. There’s a blood stain on his shoulder, and Ryan’s just now noticing his shirt is white. 

“Sorry about the stain,” Ryan says, gesturing with one shoulder toward Brendon’s soiled shirt. 

“That’s okay, just glad you’re okay,” Brendon responds. He’s looking at Ryan strangely, like they’re old friends. It makes Ryan uncomfortable that Brendon cares if he’s okay or not. All his senses are still heightened, and his knee is starting to throb with pain. 

“Yeah,” he says when Brendon doesn’t say anything else. “See you around, then.”

Ryan sees Brendon nod, but doesn’t wait for him to say anything else before turning and wrenching the door open with one hand, using the other to drag himself inside. It takes him twenty minutes to hobble into the kitchen for an ice pack and some paper towels to clean up his knee and hands. He’s only able to make it back to the couch before he’s too tired to keep moving around. He wraps his knee in the ice pack and elevates his ankle with couch pillows. He turns on the tv and turns up the volume and, in the dark, with some old sitcom in the background, he starts to sob. 

*

He’s able to dodge track practice on Monday and Tuesday by faking sick. There’s no practice on Wednesdays, and by Thursday the swelling has gone down enough that he at least looks normal below the knee. It’s basically one big purple bruise at this point, and the pain is still there, but Ryan carries himself to practice anyway. He hides the bruise beneath some muscle tape and gets through half a warmup exercise before coach notices him wincing and sends him to the student health office. 

The doctor seems like she’s in a hurry at first, but after she removes the tape, she widens her eyes and pays a bit more attention. She sends him down the hall for x-rays and makes Ryan wait in the quiet exam room by himself for twenty five whole minutes before she comes back with a manilla folder and a surprised expression. 

“It’s a fracture alright,” she says. She flips through some of the big blue x-ray sheets and frowns. “Looks pretty high impact. How did you say you did this again?”

“I slipped on the stairs,” he lies. 

“Hm,” she replies, not looking at Ryan but the x-rays. If she doesn’t believe him, she doesn’t mention it. “You’ll need time for this to heal, Ryan. I’m putting you on a strict no exercise ban for the first two weeks, followed by light stretching for two more weeks, then a follow up. You’ll need to keep the crutches they gave you at the door, you’ll be billed for them later. I’ll also prescribe some painkillers for when it really starts bothering you.”

“Can I still run?” Ryan interrupts, grinding his teeth in agitation. He feels like he already knows the answer. 

The doctor looks almost like she’s about to laugh, “I don’t know, can you?”

Ryan feels his heartbeat pick up.

“You can pick up your prescription at the pharmacy on your way out. Come see me again in four weeks, okay? Please don’t try to run on these, Ryan. They might make you feel like you can handle it, but you could do irreparable damage to your knee if you do.” With that, she rips a sheet from her prescription pad and leaves the room, motioning for Ryan to follow her. She hands him the paper and navigates him towards the student pharmacy. He has to wait ten minutes for his medications to be ready. He shoves the orange bottle deep into his backpack and leaves, hobbling as angrily as possible with the crutches tucked under his arms. 

*

“That blows, dude, I know how important track is to you. But they aren’t gonna take your scholarship away because of an injury you got during practice,” Spencer says, offhanded, totally unaware Ryan’s lied to him. Ryan looks out the window at the sun setting and itches to get out. 

“No, but they will because of my D in Chemistry,’ he mumbles. He swallows around the lump in his throat and wills his heart to slow down. 

“Ryan!” Spencer groans, looking away from the tv for the first time since he inspected Ryan’s wounds when he first came in. “How are you flunking? You’re not stupid. Have you just not been going?”

“I go,” he replies. “I just have trouble paying attention.”

“What else is new,” Spencer rolls his eyes. “Called your mom?”

“What do you think?” Ryan growls, and Spencer puts his hands up in defence. Ryan picks at the loose threads on the back of the couch cushion and resolutely doesn’t give his friend and second glance. He tries to sit up and get more comfortable, wincing when his knee moves the wrong way. 

“You should really try taking your medicine, I bet it helps with that,” Spencer says, eyes glued back on the tv screen to prove to Ryan he can be cool about things. 

Ryan looks across the room at his backpack, thrown down carelessly by the door, and thinks about the little orange bottle inside. The back of his neck itches when the hairs stand up. He tries to forget Spencer said anything and turns his attention to the tv, too. 

*

Ryan hasn’t taken any medications since he had Strep three years ago. Two years prior, his mom put him on anti-anxiety meds that made it hard to keep writing. They changed his personality too much, he said. Made him feel like he wasn’t himself anymore, and that had been the end of that. These are just pain pills…they probably won’t change too much, he thinks. Plus, his knee really hurts, and it’s making it hard to sleep. 

He’s standing in front of the bathroom mirror, bottle in hand, hair a mess, at 3am. The pills are small and yellow-ish. He could probably take them without water, even. He glances at his tired eyes, the purple bags formed underneath them, and places one of the pills on the centre of his tongue. He runs his hand under the faucet and slaps some water into his mouth to wash it down. He shakes his head. So far, nothing. 

He puts the bottle into the medicine cabinet with his toothpaste and deodorant and heads back to bed, hobbling with one hand on the wall at all times to keep his balance. By the time he gets into bed and situates himself, he notices the pain has dulled somewhat, and he doesn’t even remember falling asleep when he wakes up in the morning. 

* * * 

“You’re free tonight, right?” Spencer asks, rummaging through Ryan’s cabinets for snacks. Ryan’s got his glasses and his sweatpants on, Chemistry notebook open in his lap but completely unable to focus. He keeps scratching the back of his right hand and his knee is starting to hurt again. He tries to remember what time it was when he last took a pill, and how long he has to wait to take another. 

“Obviously,” he says. His coach told him to stop coming to observe practices after he almost fell down the bleachers last week—but that wasn’t because of his knee. He had just taken some pain medication and it made him feel a little dizzy, and maybe he had just taken two doses too close together, that’s all. Really, he’s fine. He can walk. He should be able to go to practice. But he can’t, so. Yeah, he’s free.

“Good, cuz Jon’s frat is having a party and he said he can get us in without girls,” Spencer explains, finding a half a bag of chips behind some soup cans and popping one into his mouth, frowning at the stale crunch. “And you need to get out of the house.”

“Yeah, a frat party is the perfect place for a cripple,” Ryan snorts. What was it, about 4? It’s probably been long enough since his last dose. He starts to get up and head for the bathroom, finally able to walk semi-normally without crutches after three weeks. 

“Didn’t you just go to the bathroom?” Spencer asks, looking at Ryan skeptically after tossing the chip bag in the trash. 

“Oh, did I? I must be drinking too much water,” he replies, offhanded, and continues down the hall. 

*

Ryan feels lightheaded before he even gets to the frat house. It’s probably because he hasn’t been eating very much, but his knee feels so good he could run 100 meters. Maybe, if he didn’t have this stupid little cast on his knee. He doesn’t even need it, really. He thinks about taking it off while he waits at the back door with Spencer for Jon to come sneak them inside. 

“Hey Spencer, Ryan! Glad you guys could make it,” Jon says cheerily when he opens the door. They shuffle inside, steamy and warm from the crowd of people, in stark contrast to the sharp, cool air outside. Ryan feels a shiver up his spine. “Make yourselves comfortable, guys. Jungle juice?” Jon continues. 

“Yeah, thanks,” Spencer nods. Jon disappears through a crowd of beer-pong players and spectators and into the kitchen to retrieve drinks. Spencer looks through the crowd, probably searching for the girl he likes, but Ryan can’t seem to concentrate on anything. His knee starts to hurt a little bit, and he frowns. 

“Here we go!” Jon announces as he returns, holding two red solo cups triumphantly above his head. “One for you,” he hands a cup to Spencer, “and you,” he starts to hand the other cup to Ryan. 

“Oh, no, Ryan doesn't—“

“Thanks,” Ryan interrupts, accepting the cup with a smile and bringing it to his lips. 

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Spencer asks, and Ryan pauses before taking a sip. He can smell the alcohol, strong through the mask of cheap fruit juices and ice. It smells like Tequila and it burns the inside of his nose. 

“I’ll be fine, Spence,” he says, tilting the cup and draining it in one go. Spencer raises an eyebrow curiously as he takes a sip of his own drink, conservatively. Jon looks more excited than Ryan’s ever seen him. 

“I like this Ryan,” Jon says, knocking his shoulder in Spencer’s. Spencer just rolls his eyes. Ryan’s knee hurts more. 

“I’m gonna go find the bathroom,” he says. He sets his empty cup on the edge of the counter and moves between his friends and into the crowd, towards the makeshift living room/dance floor situation. 

“Second door on your left down that hall!” Jon shouts from behind him. 

Ryan moves awkwardly through the crowd with his cast restricting his ability to squeeze through. He steps on one girl’s toes (why is she barefoot?) and she shoves him back, sending him toppling into someone else, creating a chain reaction of annoyed girls and aggressively drunk guys that want to fight him. He moves past them as quickly a he can, trying not to engage, focused on the door he can see, second one on the left, and makes his way inside. 

The second he feels the weight of that little pill on his tongue, his muscles start to relax. He can feel the pain slipping away before he even swallows, no need to wash it down with tap water this time. It’s like swallowing gum. He fixes his hair in the mirror and straightens his shirt, tucking the little baggie of pills he’d brought back into his sock so Spencer won’t know he brought them (because Spencer would worry that his pain was getting worse, that’s all).

He exits the bathroom, on Cloud 9, not even paying attention until he bumps smack into someone coming from the opposite end of the hall. 

“Oomf, hey—Ryan?” A voice says, and Ryan recognises it vaguely. He looks up to see the guy—Brendon, he thinks—the guy from when he…yeah. He smiles at Ryan, friendly, and if Ryan was a little less loopy, he’d notice Brendon glancing from his head to his toes and back again. “How’s your leg?”

“My knee,” Ryan says, scratching the side of his neck with his sleeve pulled over his hand to hide the redness there. “It’s better now,” he says, and maybe he says it a little too eagerly, because Brendon smiles a little crooked like he thinks maybe Ryan is flirting with him. 

“Yeah?” He responds, stepping a little closer into Ryan’s space. Ryan can feel his heart beat a little faster—but then, it might have been doing that already. He can’t remember anymore. Fast seems normal, now. “Good to know you’re feeling good,” Brendon continues. He’s really close now. Ryan can feel Brendon’s breath on his cheek, his lips. His vision’s a little fuzzy, but Brendon’s shirt looks soft, and he wants to touch it and find out for real. He reaches out, watching his hand meet Brendon’s chest, and yeah—it’s as soft as it looks. He runs his hand from Brendon’s shoulder down to his forearm, looking up at him through his lashes, sees him lean in closer, and then they’re kissing. 

Brendon’s lips are soft, warm, and smooth against Ryan’s own, cracked and dry. Brendon puts one hand on Ryan’s waist and the other underneath his chin, lifting slightly for a better angle and Ryan lets him. His whole body feels tingly, somehow numb and alive at the same time. The longer they kiss, the harder it gets to breathe, and it feels kind of like it does when Ryan runs. When Brendon runs his tongue along the seam of Ryan’s lips, it’s electric. 

The hallway is dark, but the lights from the living room dance floor flicker in like a strobe so Ryan gets little glimpses of Brendon’s face. Some people walk by but pay them no attention, and Brendon presses them up against the wall to make space for passerby. The wall is nice and cool, albeit a little sweaty against Ryan’s back, and Brendon is warm and solid against his front. He moves his hands to Brendon’s hair, shaggy and dark, and he hadn’t realised how much he’d wanted to touch, before. 

When they break for air, Ryan’s chest feels tight and his breathing is laboured, just the way he likes it. He can’t remember why he was even near the bathroom, now, but he doesn’t care. Brendon nips at his neck, kissing a path from his Adam’s apple to his jawline, and Ryan lowers his head to join their lips again. He doesn’t know what’s different this time, but kissing someone has never felt quite like this. Brendon’s an amazing kisser, maybe, and when he bites down gently on Ryan’s bottom lip, it feels like coming up for air. Everything feels like winning the race, and Ryan wants to get to the finish line. 

He removes his hands from Brendon’s hair and slides them down the sides of his body, meeting in the middle at Brendon’s waist, right above the zipper of his jeans. Ryan dips his fingers below the waistband, swallowing Brendon’s quiet groan, and plays with the button between his fingers. He’s about to pop it open when Brendon’s hand covers his own, pushing it away. “Wait,” he starts. 

Brendon stops kissing him and moves away, and Ryan’s body feels cold in all the places they were touching. The tone in Brendon’s voice is apprehensive, regretful, and Ryan can feel the pain in his knee returning. He wants to scratch the back of his hand. His buzz is gone. 

“Can we—“ Brendon starts, but Ryan doesn’t let him finish. 

“If you didn’t want to do this then why did you start it?” He spits. His back is still against the wall and he feels cornered. He can hear his heartbeat, loud in his ears. He can feel his face getting red with embarrassment. 

“No, what? Ryan, that’s not what I—“

“Excuse me,” Ryan says, shoving Brendon aside more roughly than he should. The bathroom is empty, thankfully, and Ryan tries to slip back inside, but he slams his bad knee against the doorjamb and—fuck, it hurts really bad. Like, really. He crumples in the doorway, holding his leg in his hands and fighting to keep the tears at bay. “Fuck!” He yells. 

“Ryan? Let me help you,” Brendon says from behind him, reaching out to touch his shoulder. Ryan slaps it away. 

“Stay the fuck away from me!” He shouts, his eyes wild. His knee hurts so bad, god. He needs to take more medication. He sits on the floor, halfway in the bathroom and halfway in the hall, and reaches into his sock for his pills. He frantically grabs one out of the baggie and gobbles it down like the last drink of water in the desert. 

“Are you supposed to be taking those like that?” Brendon asks. He’s stepped away a little, but he’s still there. Ryan vaguely notices Brendon grab the baggie from him to inspect the pills. “Ryan, are these Vicodin? Have you been drinking with these?”

He sounds worried, but Ryan isn’t. Within a few minutes he feels better than he has all night. His heart is still beating really fast, but he can’t hear it anymore. It just sounds like water rushing past his ears, and it’s nice—like being at the beach on a warm, sticky day. If someone would just turn on the sun, it would be just like that right now. 

“Ryan?” Ryan hears his name being called but doesn’t know whose speaking. He laughs a little. The room is spinning, getting fuzzy at the edges like his vision’s been all night. Right before he blacks out, someone touches his face again. He nuzzles into the touch and feels the warm, rough carpet beneath his cheek. 

*

When Ryan wakes up the next morning, he’s in Spencer’s bed. The curtains are all open and the sun is shining in, unforgiving, heightening the pain in Ryan’s head and stomach and knee and everywhere. Spencer stands in the bathroom doorway while he throws up. “You’re lucky Brendon was there to make you throw up those pills,” he says, arms folded, tone sharp and authoritative. “You’re lucky you’re not in the hospital, or dead.”

I feel lucky, Ryan thinks, heaving another round into the toilet bowl. Spencer doesn’t rub his back or even look at him kindly, and Ryan feels guilty and sad. He doesn’t look at Spencer either. He doesn’t even want to think about Brendon. 

“You’ve got to get your shit together, Ryan. You’re going to kill yourself like this.”

“I don’t need a lecture,” Ryan snaps, leaning his forehead against he cold porcelain. 

“You don’t need those pills, either,” Spencer scoffs. He doesn’t sound punitive or concerned. He sounds…bored. He sounds disappointed. 

“Listen,” Spencer says, sighing in preparation. “I love you, Ryan, you know that. But if this is how you’re going to live your life…” 

“It’s not,” Ryan says, too loudly. It hurts his head. “I’m just going through some shit right now, and—“

“You’re always going through some shit,” Spencer shouts. Ryan holds his head with his free hand. “You need help. And not the kind in a bottle.”

“I know,” he whispers. And he does know. When the next wave of bile crawls up his throat, he takes the opportunity not to answer, and uses it as an excuse for the hot tears that sting in the corners of his eyes. Spencer is right, of course. Things can’t stay the same. There are a lot of ways Ryan needs to work on healing. But as he sits on the floor, kneeling with one leg and extending the other so there isn’t pressure on his knee, the only step he can think to take is towards the medicine cabinet.


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You could still be what you want to,  
> what you said you were when I met you

It’s just past 5pm, the sun sinking low over the horizon and painting everything magenta, stratus clouds cutting zig-zags across the sky. It’s February, so there’s a thin layer of ice on the ground where the snow has finally melted away, leaving behind a barely-noticeable hazard for Ryan to cautiously avoid. The air is crisp and burns his lungs a little, but he knows the difference between a healthy burn and knowing when to stop.

When he rounds the corner, Petunia’s happy yapping begs him to stop and take a breath, but even the promise of a few gentle licks in exchange for belly rubs can’t stop him today. He’s making good time for the first time in weeks, and he’s got to push himself a little if he ever wants to get back to baseline. He does take a moment to wave to Melissa, Petunia’s owner, as he passes. She smiles and returns the gesture enthusiastically. 

When he reaches the edge of the neighbourhood, where flat roads give way to gradually increasing inclines, he can feel his knee tensing up a bit in anticipation. He shakes himself a little, turns up the Fall Out Boy in his headphones, and pushes through the discomfort. A quick glance at his watch tells him he’s twenty four seconds away from last August’s personal best, and that’s so exciting Ryan’s already smiling. 

He grinds his teeth and squints his eyes, halfway up, and the summit is within his field of vision. He can see the little bench at the top of the hill and imagines a huge bullseye—he imagines being shot from a bow, sailing through the air and landing exactly where he’s supposed to be. His knee begins to throb, slightly overwhelmed by the increased stress, but there’s only a little more to go and he feels confidence surge through him. Breathing heavily and audibly over the sound of his music, Ryan makes one final push—and reaches the bench with .23 seconds to spare. 

Chest heaving, eyes watering, knee throbbing, Ryan pulls out one earphone and raises his hands above his head. He can’t stop smiling. He almost feels like yelling, or pumping his fist in the air. He takes a few shuddering breaths and looks around at the quiet neighbourhood, listening to the birds and the distant sounds of cars and people. He looks over the hill at the setting sun and, fuck it, pumps his fist into the air. 

*

On Mondays, Ryan goes to his lectures in the mornings and therapy in the afternoons. His therapist, Dr. Hudson, gets excited when Ryan tells him about beating his personal best from the previous August. When she asks how the triumph made Ryan feel, Ryan tells her. Dr. Hudson encourages him to continue running to feel accomplished, but also reminds him that being a good runner isn’t the only way to prove his worth. “You’re more than your personal best, Ryan,” she says. It took Ryan a few weeks to believe her. 

“You can be good at things and bad at things, but neither of those effects your value as a human being,” Hudson says. “You don’t have to prove anything to anybody.”

“Yeah,” Ryan says, smiling a little. “I know.”

*

On Tuesdays, Ryan goes to track practice in the mornings, where he participates in the stretches and some of the sprints, but not the long distance races. Coach Wentz says he’s getting better and stronger everyday, and eventually he’ll be able to attend meets again. 

“Been doing some running on your own, still?” Wentz asks. He and Ryan are sitting on the sidelines, watching some of his teammates run their drills and practice hurdling. Ryan isn’t healed enough for hurdling yet, but his physical therapist, Gabe, says he’ll be ready to start weening back in in no time. 

“Yeah,” Ryan replies, swigging some water and wiping the dribble from his chin. “I’m back to August’s time.”

Wentz looks away from the others, an expression of surprise on his face. “That’s amazing, Ryan,” he says. He puts a heavy hand on Ryan’s shoulder and squeezes. “Do you wanna go run the 800m with William? Stop whenever you want, just see what you can do?”

Ryan smiles and nods, stunned. Before Wentz can change his mind, he jogs over to William on the other side of the track and they set up. When William calls the count, Ryan feels a familiar jolt of anticipation, excitement, and nerves shoot up his spine. When he takes off, it feels like he’s flying. He finished before William, only by a nose, but when he looks over at Wentz, the coach is already jogging over to them. 

“Ross!” Wentz exclaims, smiling widely and shaking Ryan by the shoulders. “I think you’re ready!”

Ryan wants to cry. He wants to scream and jump up and down and (attempt to) do a cartwheel, maybe. He doesn’t do any of those, just hugs his coach tightly and accepts the pat on the back from William, even though he knows it’s only halfhearted. 

*

Wednesday mornings are more lectures, Wednesday afternoons are for tutoring. 

Greta Salpeter, Ryan’s tutor, is probably the sweetest girl at school. She always wears long skirts with baggy sweaters, and Ryan has never seen her shoes. Sometimes her hair is braided and sometimes it’s loose and wavy, breathing. If Ryan were into girls, Greta would be a total dream. 

She’s also super smart. She’s Ryan’s tutor for Biology, which he has to retake this semester. After only two weeks with her, Ryan knows the ins and outs of a cell like the back of his hand. On his first quiz, he gets a 93%. Greta is so excited for him she plants a big, wet kiss on his cheek. He blushes as he wipes it off with his sleeve. 

*

Thursdays are his days off, and he usually spends them studying or calling his mom. She started answering again, ever since she got the call from the hospital that they were pumping Ryan’s stomach. 

“Ryan!” She answers. He can hear the tv in the background and the sounds of his step sister playing. It’s still a little awkward, but Dr. Hudson is helping him with this too. “How are things?”

“Good, good,” Ryan responds. “I got a 93% in Biology last week.”

“That’s amazing, sweetie! I’m so glad things are coming more easily this time around.”

Ryan smiles a little, eager to produce the next bit of news. “Yeah, and Coach let me run the 800m at practice on Tuesday. He wants me to run it in the meet on Sunday.”

There’s a pause on the other line, and Ryan thinks for a minute that the connection might have dropped. When he checks hi signal, however, he has full bars, and something dark starts to stir in the pit of his stomach. “This Sunday?” His mom asks quietly. 

“Yeah,” he responds, frowning now. He looks out the window and watches the snow falling. He looks towards the door, where his favourite running shoes lie in a pile on top of coats and hoodies and dirty socks. 

“Don’t you think that’s a little soon?” She says. She sounds nervous and patronising. Worried, Ryan attempts to correct himself in his head. She’s worried about him. She just wants what’s best. She’s just making sure. Parenting.

“No,” he says, working hard to keep his tone even and his heart rate down. “I ran it in practice, Coach saw. He said I looked good. I beat William. My knee was fine,” even as he says it, his knee starts to throb a little as if aware it’s the topic of conversation. 

“Well, what did Gabriel say? Have you mentioned this to him?”

Ryan swallows down the lump in his throat and fights the urge to reply in anger. “No, but I’m meeting him on Friday. I’ll ask then.”

“Just promise you’ll listen to him if he tells you to take it easy,” she prompts, sounding stern and motherly. Ryan bristles at the tone, coming from her now but never before. 

“Promise,” he says. 

When they hang up with I Love Yous, Ryan retrieves his indoor shoes from his bedroom closet and his winter coat from the hall, locking the door behind him as he head to the school gym for what he promises himself will only be a brisk jog. 

*

It does turn out to be a brisk jog. The walk to the gym calms him down a little, so when he arrives he walks a few laps and jogs a few, stopping when his knee feels a little sore and overused. In the locker room, he tapes it up with gauze to prevent it from swelling. He fixes his hair in the mirror and stuffs his winter jacket into his backpack so he can feel the cold air on the walk home. 

Headphones in, he’s about to exit the building when he feels a tap on his shoulder. When he turns around, he’s surprised to see its—

Brendon. 

His hair is a little longer than Ryan remembers. He’s wearing blue basketball shorts and a plain white t-shirt, slightly sweaty but smiling nonetheless. Ryan takes both earphones out and smiles timidly back. 

“Ryan,” Brendon says, as if testing the waters. Like Ryan wouldn’t remember him, somehow. He’s seen Brendon around, just—with the way he left things, he wasn’t sure Brendon would even want to see him again. But he looks excited now. “How…how’ve you been?”

Ryan fidgets, nervous that this line of questioning will lead to a place he isn’t quite ready to re-visit. “I—“

“Your knee looks better,” Brendon interrupts, dropping down into a squat and examining the tape, touching lightly above the knee where the swelling is usually the most prominent. For a second, Ryan worries Brendon’s touch has caused his knee to ache, but quickly realises that the sensation isn’t exactly pain at all. 

“It is, thanks,” Ryan responds, grateful to avoid other topics. Brendon rises back to a standing position and Ryan looks directly into his big, dark-brown eyes. “A lot of things are better than they were last time you saw me.”

Brendon gives a little half-smile and doesn’t ask for any further details. “I’m happy to hear that,” he says. 

There’s a pause where neither of them speak. Ryan looks away, unable to hold Brendon’s gaze through the silence without blushing. He tells himself it can be easily passed off as exercise induced redness. 

“You running again?” Brendon asks suddenly, gesturing vaguely to Ryan’s shoes. 

“Yeah, I am,” Ryan replies, unable to hide his grin. Brendon smiles too, like it’s infectious. Ryan looks down at his feet. “Actually, I…” He chances a glance at Brendon’s face, looking expectant, paying Ryan his full attention. “I, um. There’s a meet this Sunday at the practice facility on Main. If you…if you wanted to come, you could.”

Brendon smiles at this, crossing his arms across his chest defiantly. “Ryan Ross, are you asking me to come cheer you on?”

“Or you can cheer for the other team, it’s really up to you,” Ryan shrugs, placing the back of his hand against his left cheek to stop the blush from deepening. It doesn’t work. 

“Should I show up in a little skirt with pom poms?” Brendon asks. 

Ryan starts to laugh, “Please don’t.”

“Or bring a big poster with your face on it?”

“Please don’t,” Ryan repeats, stifling the laugh in the sleeve of his under armour. 

Brendon narrows his eyes coyly, stepping further into Ryan’s space. “Do you really want me to root for the other team?”

Ryan swallows, a different kind of lump in his throat than he’s used to. Brendon is so close Ryan can smell his cologne, and his sweat. He whispers, “Please don’t.”

When Brendon kisses him, it’s soft and patient. There’s no rush, no anxiety, no time to beat. It’s cold outside, snow falling so lightly it almost feels like mist, but Ryan feels hot and alive. When Brendon pulls back, just enough to rest their foreheads together, it feels like reaching the top of the hill. And when Brendon says, “I can’t wait,” like he really can’t, Ryan feels like he’s already won.


End file.
